Love Is Not a Victory March
by Stacey Verda
Summary: He saved your life, he thinks you’re saving his. And for a while, you could live off that, rest comfortably in inertia. But now everything is progressing and pushing forward and it can’t be a summer fling in October.


I. The Minor Fall

It's not the backdrop you would pick for such a conversation: the sun imperceptibly slipping beneath the water, oranges, pinks and purples bleeding into the rolling blue and green of the Pacific. But you're used to taking what you can get; you're Veronica Mars, after all. Maybe the sunset will soften the words you're forcing from your mouth.

You wish you could be somewhere else right now, anywhere else, because he's still somehow regarding you with this ridiculously, obscenely, heart-breakingly hopeful layer shimmering somewhere in the brown of his irises. That's always been one of his problems, one of your weaknesses. If anyone ever looks long enough, his eyes will betray each of his buried secrets. But you never need to look that hard; just one of your sweeping glances will instantly have him eroding layers of sarcasm and indifference, exposing ripped and raw insides. And you're already doing that with every word you utter, with each syllable that reverberates through you and adds to the perpetually omnipresent ache you can never seem to escape.

You avoid his eyes for as long as you can, staring into the melting sun so you have something painful to concentrate on, to distract you from the excuses you're already regretting. You've always been an expert when it comes to making excuses, lying to yourself, repressing the thoughts you would rather not think. And at the moment you're simply searching for anything that will push him back to a safer distance.

He saved your life, he thinks you're saving his. And for a while, you could live off that, rest comfortably in inertia. But now everything is progressing and pushing forward. Summer is sprinting to its inevitable end, dragging you—this—along with it and it can't be a summer fling in October. Sometimes when you look at him, you can see straight to his core. You worry—no,

you know—that he can see yours, too. It's all adding up to something you've been trying to overlook, but the building momentum won't be ignored forever.

And you hate to admit it, because Veronica Mars isn't afraid of anything, but you're scared. Shitless. Therefore:

"I was wrong, thinking we could put everything behind us." Your gaze finally risks shifting his direction, at his eyes, hope long since replaced by the pain lodged too familiarly between chocolate and reflected twilight. "Neither of us have much success at forgiving, and it's too much to forget."

There is always too much between the two of you.

A barely audible sigh escapes his lips; he wishes he could at least feign surprise, but the steps to this dance are becoming exhaustingly familiar for each partner involved. Heartbreak, ruined lives, bloodshed, right? You both know your lines. He pushes his sunglasses down over his eyes, despite the mounting darkness. Ever the masochist, he turns his head to see

you, resting it on his bent knee. Your eyes lock, and even though his are hidden, you're suddenly collapsing.

Ridiculous how it hurts either way. How you can love someone so much your heart aches or miss someone so much it rips you apart. In the end, it's the same pain. But when you're missing someone, they can't hurt you any more. They can't describe your relationship as something only found in fairy tales then answer the door the next morning, dressed in boxers and bimbo,

barely remembering the entire thing. They can't leave you stumbling to an elevator, hopelessly praying your tears will wait until the doors slide shut. And that's the difference. You'll pick the throbbing sting of absence every time, so long as it's self-prescribed; self-inflicted pain is your favorite brand.

You work in doubtless absolutes, constant facts, concrete evidence. And the truth? You prefer those definites. You hate uncertainty and change and unexpected plot twists. And boys, especially, particularly this boy, are not definite or constant. Their only consistent attribute is their inconsistency. Boyfriends disappear, disappoint, like mothers and best friends.

And all of your absolutes, facts, evidence point to one certain conclusion: They can't leave you if you're already gone.

You squint at him like the sun is in your eyes, even though it's getting so dark all you can really recognize is an outline. But it's easier to see his blurred image than the definition of his face, less painful to walk away from a shadowed profile than that mole on his forehead, his annoyingly cocky grin, those goddamn eyes. You're missing him already, continuously, constantly missing him, even though he sits three feet away. Might as well make it three hundred. So you stand and slowly brush the sand from your legs.

You walk. Even as his slumped form silently begs stay, even as every fiber of your being screams stop, you walk. You're almost reconsidering your logic when your bare feet hit the asphalt and they falter, but only for a few steps. And then you're practically sprinting to the apartment.

You don't let yourself look back until it's safe, when you can lean against the front door, lungs burning, eyes prickling. The Pacific has finally swallowed the sun and it's too dark and too far to tell for sure, but you know he's still there. You leave, he stays; it's becoming your one consistancy.

You each know your part.

II. The Major Lift

Six days later. You're both back, wrapped in the loose embrace of four in the morning, breathing easier with only the moon and whispering shoreline witnessing another clandestine meeting.

He might have called. You might have listened to each other exist, phone's pressed close to ears, hearts hanging on each breath. You might have agreed to meet without even speaking.

Or he's just always there, breaking apart in that same spot, feet and hands buried in the sand like he never wants to leave. And you just found yourself slowly crashing into him, weary of counting countless sheep.

You are constantly doing that—crashing.

The air feels different somehow. His eyes stay focused in the middle distance when you approach, but you know he's aware of your presence. It's in his shallowed breath, slouched shoulders, the arms he's trying to lose beneath the sand. Your hair reflects and redirects the moon's borrowed light like some kind of chandelier, casting fragmented patterns across his skin and you forget to breathe. It's the closest you've come to touching him in six days. There are endless inches and so much else between you but you can almost feel the brush of his bare skin.

Palms pressed against sifting ground that has long since lost the heat of the nearly-forgotten day, you sit next to him, just out of arms reach. You've given up trying to trust yourself around him.

You wonder how old these bits of crumbled rock are, how long they've been worried by the sea and recording the people—so blink-and-you-miss-it in the life-span of sand—crying and living and loving and dying on this beach, over and over, the same scripts acting out again and again. You consider the stars dancing and winking between the inky black water and bruised sky

and try to imagine infinity.

You try to think of anything except the boy sitting next to you, but that became a lost cause the moment you witnessed his collapse, sobbing and shuddering, in a five-star hotel lobby. And somehow, somewhere along the way when you weren't looking, between Camelot kisses and murder cases, smashed headlights and epic speeches, false accusations and rescue missions, he buried himself so far into you, got to you in a way you still don't understand, and despite your better judgment, you can't just let this go.

You told him you weren't good at forgiving, that it's too much to forget. The truth? You can't forget, you won't let yourself, but you want to forgive him, maybe even yourself. Missing him isn't a throbbing sting; it's consuming. You've been trying for the past six days to push it aside but it's too raw to go near. Just being next to him again makes it okay to breathe.

No one talks; you both just listen to the water lapping, concentrate on the sighing breeze gently tugging through your hair. You push your fingers and toes into the sand and wait. You wait until the sun starts to wake up behind you, peeking around palm trees and apartment buildings. You catch each other stealing a glance and you're glad it's a sunrise this time, because you're tired of endings.

Purples, pinks and oranges snake across the sky, pushing the moon back, hiding the stars. Black slowly turns to blue, and it's like you can actually see it happening, each individual pixel of night slipping into morning.

"It's beautiful." You whisper, the first words you've shared in more than six days and you're surprised your voice still works.

"Yeah." He breathes.

You can't help it; you smile. "If you're looking at me right now…"

He laughs, and you glance over, and of course he is, head resting on bent knee. He's regarding you with that obscenely hopeful look again, promising years and continents once more and you wonder if your face tells the same story, want to let him know that you might not mind the idea.

"So." He says.

You stand then, shake sand off your arms, slowly brush it away from your legs. And you feel it again, that momentum. He waits, head tilted to the sky, but you can tell he's watching you from the corner of his eyes.

You walk.

After three steps you turn around, watch him considering the Pacific with that signature slouch. "Coming?"

His head jerks in your direction. He stumbles to his feet and walks over to you. Then you just stand there, staring at each other, until you can't handle it anymore. You're filling up inside, overflowing, bursting. Your fingers graze his cheek, his cheek

touches your fingers—it's impossible to tell anymore. His eyes widen and it hurts, everything inside, pressing and squeezing against you. You lean into him, your lips barely brushing. And then you're staring at each other again.

"What?" He finally asks, eyes trained on your lips.

"I didn't say anything."

"Oh," And then he twists his fingers in your hair and you crash into each other.

You're always crashing.

III. Every Breath They Drew Was Hallelujah

You don't remember how you end up at his beach house, but somehow you're in the bedroom, pressed between his lean body and a mattress pushed against the wall. You don't even realize your shirt is gone until you're shivering, his hot tongue dipping into your belly button and sliding across velvet skin, painstakingly tracing the crease between your breasts. And then his fingers are playing at the elastic of your pajama pants and before he can ask, you're pulling them off yourself. He kisses you, slow and deep, and you think this may be the best thing that's happened to you, ever. You can still feel sand between your toes. The way his stomach is sticking to yours, the way you're arching into his every touch, is making your heart skip more than a few beats. When his hand starts doodling on the inside of your thigh you have to bite his clavicle so you won't cry out.

You can't stop touching his collarbones. They're so sharp, they could probably cut through glass, and you wonder why you never noticed how incredibly sexy they are until now. He's kissing every inch of your skin and you think, no, this is the best thing that's happened to you, ever. Then his chin is rubbing against your thigh, day-old stubble leaving goose bumps in its wake, and you stop thinking. His lips brush you right there and you whimper, pulling his mouth back to yours, sweet and tangy and messy against your tongue. You kiss the tip of his nose, his eyelids, his ear lobe in a silent prayer for what you can't make yourself say. Then his boxers are gone and he pulls out a condom from who knows where and skin is sliding against skin that's never touched before and then he's pushing inside of you, slowly slipping soul ward, and your vision turns white.

He's making it impossible to breathe. You're falling in love with the pressure of his body on yours, this steady rhythm that follows the beat of your heart. His hands are everywhere and then suddenly your body is raining. Your hands grip frantically at his back, fingernails leaving tiny half-moons, and think you might be flying apart. He presses his forehead against yours and you want to cry, because it's almost too much, there's always too much between the two of you, but you're not going to be one of those girls who cry during sex. He groans into the corner of your mouth and then collapses against your shoulder. You're holding Logan Echolls again, but this time he's shuddering for a different reason and whispering words that are swallowed in a sloppy kiss. He pushes hair off your face then slowly peels himself from you, disappears from the room and your legs don't stop shaking until he's back, tucking a fluffy white comforter over your shoulder and fitting himself against your back.

You don't want to sleep. It was different, cheesy as it sounds. More than just skin, lips, heavy breathing. Bigger. You want to remember this time, this point when everything is shifting and magnifying and focusing. The way his hair is pure static on one side, the way his arm drapes across your stomach and curls under your hip, how all the colors are brighter, sharper, bolder. But your eyelids are heavy and you're not sure if they've really closed in a week, so you turn and face him, wrap your arms around his chest, and sleep breathing the same oxygen.

IV. Love Is Not a Victory March

When you wake, tangled in bed sheets and bare legs, you're back to back and sunlight is filtering in through the crooked paper blinds he still hasn't replaced, a bright white light soft against your face. You can see a sliver of sky, crisp and blue, at the top of the window. You have no idea what time it is and you really don't care. You turn over and watch him breathe, his side rising and falling like waves in the ocean.

You concentrate on the sun's warmth, the feel of it on the back of your neck and soles of your feet. It soaks into your skin, buries its way into all your tissues and organs, wraps itself around each cell. Pressing your face against the sun-freckled skin between his shoulder blades, you realize: this is your mediation. You've found infinity. He slowly turns around and smiles sleepily, his eyelids still closed, and brushes his lips against your throat.

"Hi." His mouth moves up to yours and he kisses you, soft, warm, perfect and you never want to leave his lips or bed or this early afternoon.

"Logan?" Your voice is scratchy from sleep. His smile widens and one eye blinks open.

"Veronica?" He curves his hand against your hip and pulls you closer, until your bodies are a breathing jigsaw puzzle. The tips of his fingers resting against your lower back and his skin melting into yours is enough to wipe your mind of what you want to say, so you wiggle away a little and try not to miss the contact. The left side of his grin falls and he grasps your hipbone tighter, like it's the only thing keeping you from disappearing.

You lay your palm flat against his sternum, try to track his heartbeat, because you know what he thinks you're going to say. He's expecting you to play your part, to run, but the truth?

"I…" You take a deep breath as he closes his eyes, replace your hand with your face and whisper it with his heartbeat.

"What?" He gently tips your chin up, until your eyes connect. "What did you just say?"

For a full minute you don't answer. You just stare at him, at that mole on his forehead, the mouth that's normally curved into an annoyingly cocky grin but right now is decidedly neutral, those goddamn eyes. Your fingers trace his incredibly sexy clavicles until you can finally say it, your unexpected plot twist.

"I love you."

And it's not how you had always imagined it would be. There's no gunshot this time. It's quiet, unassuming. And even if he's unpredictable, even though you're scared shitless, you know it to be completely true. It's a constant fact. The Camelot kisses and murder cases, smashed headlights and epic speeches, false accusations and rescue missions point to one certain

conclusion: Against your better judgment, despite the script you've both perfected, it's a definite you can't help but prefer.

The look he sends you then, the million thoughts flickering in his amber gaze, makes your heart ache in a way you almost hope never stops. Your lips slide across his sternum and the way he almost stops breathing makes it seem like it's the best thing that's happened to him, ever. You don't regret these words, so you say it again.

"I love you." Your fingers mimic the parallels of his ribcage. "I love you." You kiss a crooked line up his chest. "I love you." Your lips press firmly against a round white scar in the crook of his elbow.

"Veronica." His voice is scratchy, from sleep and something else. He pulls you up, studies your face. His eyes are shining with tears and your heart expands and throws itself against your lungs. His hand drags across his face then moves to yours, fingers slowly tracing your cheekbone. "I…" He buries his face into your hair, inhales deeply, marshmallows and promises,

then laughs softly. "God." He laughs again and gently pushes you on your back, slowly lowers himself on to you until he fits, puzzle once again personified. He peels a strand of hair from your lips, his forearms bracing his weight and framing your face. "Veronica, I—you know I love you."

And you do. You have, for a while. But it still rearranges your insides, still leaves you gasping for air. Momentum has you by the hand again, but this time you'll grab him with the other and lead the way. Even though it's as far from easy as it can get—if any relationship ever deserved a song, it's this one—and even though you might not actually be epic, you are in love. Your reflection stares back from the brown of his irises; you fit, and it almost seems certain. He leans his forehead against yours and you can't help it, you smile, because you're Veronica Mars, and this is exactly where you want to be.


End file.
